


our little remedy

by a_good_soldier



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, s05e01: Return To The Horrifying Winchester Mansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 04:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16422641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: There’s a smile on Ryan’s face, though, and he sits down right in front of Shane. They’re not touching, but they could be; if Shane shifted forward half an inch their knees would be gently pressed against each other, and it’d be meaningless to Ryan, which is the only reason Shane would get away with it. All the same, he keeps his limbs to himself.





	our little remedy

**Author's Note:**

> title from hozier's "moment's silence" - i thought the line "the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me" would be a little on the nose :^)
> 
> anyway this is rpf i'm going to hell etc etc head on over to agoodsoldier.tumblr.com if you wanna ask anything abt this that isn't answered by the tags !

“Hey dude.” Shane looks up to see Ryan standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“What’s up?” Ryan doesn’t say anything, and Shane crawls out of his sleeping bag and turns his phone flashlight on. “C’mon, everything okay?” Instinctively, he starts to turn off his own cameras and mics, and becomes even more worried when Ryan doesn’t make a move to stop him.

Once the last one is off, along with his light, Ryan sighs. “Sorry, man, I just—” He shudders. It’s not cold, and Shane, who’s wearing a t-shirt, has to conclude that even by Ryan’s SoCal standards it’s not cold enough to explain shivering. “Creeped out, I guess.”

“No need to guess. This whole place was built to creep you out.” It’s dark — must be almost four, though, since light from what could be a false dawn is slanting in through a window Shane can’t see. He eyes Ryan in the ambiguous light, forearms crossed and hands gripping his upper arms, slumped into the doorpost. And, most telling of all, the fact that his cameras are turned off, when this would be prime Unsolved material. Ryan, coming down to see Shane even when they expressly said they wouldn’t? The fans would eat it up.

Ryan shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.” And then Ryan — Ryan, who has never shied away from making an idiot out of himself in the name of his own integrity, and Christ, now’s not the time for Shane’s embarrassing crush to rear its head — Ryan says, “Never mind. I’ll let you sleep.”

Never mind. _Never mind_. As though Shane hasn’t gotten up to turn off the cameras, which TJ’s undoubtedly gonna give them shit for, just to hear what Ryan has to say. “No way. Come here.” He plops down on top of his sleeping bag, legs crossed, and waits. Ryan doesn’t budge. “Hey, you woke me up, you gotta deal with the consequences.”

“Fine.” There’s a smile on Ryan’s face, though, and he sits down right in front of Shane. They’re not touching, but they could be; if Shane shifted forward half an inch their knees would be gently pressed against each other, and it’d be meaningless to Ryan, which is the only reason Shane would get away with it. All the same, he keeps his limbs to himself.

Shane waits for a second, but he’s not a patient man, no matter what kind of hermit cryptid aesthetic he tries to portray. “So what ails ya, sailor?” He winces as it comes out of his mouth; instinct has him setting up walls, speaking like a 1740’s barmaid to avoid saying anything real. Yikes. His internal monologue is getting real pointed at 4am.

It makes Ryan laugh, though, which is better than the pained expression he’d been wearing earlier. “God, you fucker,” he snorts. “Sailor. Jesus Christ.”

“What can I say, the spirits of the past move me to speak.”

Ryan shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything more.

Shane, who is used to not pushing — used to taking what Ryan gives him and no more — pushes. Gently, though, as gently as he knows how. “The spirits of the past also move me to ask what you’re doing here at 4 in the morning.”

Ryan looks down at his lap and stretches a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. Inconveniently, this raises his shirt up two inches, enough for Shane to take in a sliver of skin, all the more intimate for the fact that it’s nighttime and Ryan’s wearing his goddamn pajamas. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“That’s not what the spirits asked,” Shane says, because if he has to say anything on his own behalf it will come out as incoherent screeching. The man before him is an unmitigated _thirst trap_ , and worse, a thirst trap who is clearly going through Some Shit. Shane needs to get his ass in gear here.

Ryan grimaces. “Stupid nightmare. Had to see if—” He cuts himself off. “Anyway. It’s cool now. Not a real emergency.”

Shane begins to see the contours of Ryan’s night. A nightmare; had to see Shane. Had to see that he was still kicking, that Ryan wasn’t alone in this house. Shane’s death is one Ryan’s had before, and Shane is distressingly flattered by the fact that Ryan cares enough to have nightmares about _him_ , Shane Madej.

He’s not a total creep, though, so he doesn’t invite Ryan to sleep next to him, even if he feels like it would be a totally valid segue. Instead he says, “Aw geez, dude, that’s rough. I’m sorry.”

And then Ryan says, all in a rush, phrased like a question but launched out so fast it barely has a tone, “Can I sleep here for a bit?”

Shane blinks. He says, stupidly, “You don’t— uh— have to,” as though Ryan has reached into his mind and offered up Shane’s most guarded fantasy out of politeness.

Ryan flinches back. “Yeah, of course not, sorry— sorry for bothering you.” He stands up, but Shane’s mind finally makes a good goddamn decision and his hand snaps out to grab Ryan’s wrist.

“Don’t leave.” He uses Ryan as leverage to pull himself up, and doesn’t think about how solid Ryan is or the shift of his muscles under his skin as he helps Shane heave himself off the ground. “That was dumb. Of course you can sleep here.”

Ryan pulls his wrist out of Shane’s grip, though, and says, “No, I shouldn’t have— the episode is supposed to be us alone, we shouldn’t.”

“I’ve got more than enough nightcam footage already,” Shane says, trying to salvage this. Ryan avoids meeting Shane’s eyes, and Shane tells himself it’s just because he’s so tall, and nothing to do with having mortally offended Ryan. “I sang Mamma Mia. I’m pretty sure it’s awful enough that even if we put the whole song in there it wouldn’t violate copyright law.”

“Jesus, dude, you really don’t stop. You’re not even a little bit freaked out?”

Shane shrugs. “Honestly, not right now. This room is pretty cozy. Have you seen those wooden beams?”

Ryan doesn’t even look up. “Yeah, they’re nice.”

Shane sighs. “Look, do you want to sleep in here for the rest of the night or not?”

Ryan shifts, telegraphing discomfort as obviously as if he’d written I’M UNCOMFORTABLE in neon letters above his head. “Clearly it’s weird, so whatever. I’m not going to.” 

“It’s not weird, and you should do it if it’ll get you to sleep.” Shane tries not to launch into his usual spiel — you’re overworking yourself, humans need a minimum of six hours of sleep per night, Christ almighty you look like you’ve survived on coffee alone for the past ten years — and instead says, “We can get your stuff from your room tomorrow, if you just don’t want to make the trip there and back.”

That’s definitely not the source of Ryan’s hesitation, but Ryan nods anyway. “Sure. Yeah, we can get it tomorrow. If you’re sure.” 

“One hundred fuckin’ percent, my man,” Shane drawls in some approximation of a frat bro, because now that they’re here, he realizes he has no idea how to deal with men in his intimate space when it’s not a gay thing. With Ryan there have been cameras every other time, and he’s starting to realize that Ryan’s not so uptight about physical boundaries as he was five years ago.

Which is all to say that Shane-with-a-crush is in for a situation and a half tonight.

Ryan, thank the fucking Lord, doesn’t say anything, and just lies down on the floor.

The bare floor.

“Jesus, dude, we can get your sleeping bag at least,” Shane says. “You’re gonna sleep on the fuckin’ floor?”

“I didn’t think this through,” Ryan says. He pulls out his phone. “I wasn’t gonna get much sleep anyway, so I figured I might as well—”

“If you say look at our stats so help me God,” Shane snaps, and Ryan dutifully shuts his mouth. Shane runs a hand through his hair. Ryan’s shirt is riding up again, and he’s wearing basketball shorts. Not that Shane cares about the shorts, exactly, except that Ryan’s got his knees up and his feet planted flat on the floor, which means that the shorts are sliding back up towards his stomach to reveal a lot more of Ryan’s thighs than Shane was prepared to see.

“Okay. It’s fully a seven minute walk to your room, because this place is a nightmare mansion.”

Ryan nods warily, and locks his phone.

“This is untenable.” 

Ryan laughs. “I mean, I can get my damn sleeping bag. The ghosts might kill me, but I made it here, so I’m pretty sure I can make it back on my own, too.”

“No, we can’t walk, it’s too far,” Shane says, because now he’s committed to the bit. “Yuri, I can’t make it!”

“Is that— what reference is that? Is that Shakespeare or something? God, every time we hang out I feel like an idiot.”

Shane pauses. “It’s _The IT Crowd_. From the German cannibal episode.” 

“Right,” Ryan says, “of course.”

Shane, who admittedly has some serious blinkers on when it comes to Ryan Steven Bergara, can pretty clearly see the contours of this insecurity, too: Shane name dropping like an asshole and Ryan struggling to keep up. He truly can’t even blame Ryan, since it seems the fault largely lies with the California public school system.

It’s way too late to handle any of that, though, so he blows right past it. “We can share. It’s not cold and I’ve got an extra sweater, so we could just lay out the sleeping bag and sleep on top of it.”

That’s too much. He realizes it’s too much the instant he says it, but he can’t backtrack, because that’ll make it even more obvious. Shit. _Shit_. Ryan’s going to say yes, out of that same damn civility that emerges at the most unexpected of times, and then he’s going to stop replying to Shane’s texts because he won’t want to give Shane the wrong impression—

“Sure,” Ryan says. He even sounds surprised. “That’s generous, man.”

“It’s— it’s 75 degrees in here, it’s not like I need the coverage.”

“Yeah. 75 degrees. It’s fuckin’ _cold_.”

“Jesus. You’re such a baby.” 

“Shut up, Bigfoot,” Ryan says. There’s something in his voice — it’s the hour, undoubtedly, but Shane likes to think it’s also the fact that they’re together, in this wooden room with its echoing architecture and its minimal light — that speaks to a soft, velvet intimacy. Shane watches as Ryan gets on his knees and unzips Shane’s sleeping bag completely, and— surely he shouldn’t need to stretch that far forward, surely he shouldn’t need to shift his knees just slightly apart for balance, God—

Shane swallows. “You— you need some help there?”

“Nope.” Ryan’s got the whole thing unzipped, and he unfolds the bag underneath him so it’s just a layer on top of the floor. He sprawls on his stomach, starfished across the whole thing. “This is mine now. You made the wrong decision.”

“Goddamnit,” Shane huffs out, and sits down next to Ryan’s waist. He consciously does not rest a hand on Ryan’s back, even if his fingers itch to make contact. “Okay, can I have some sleeping room, please?”

Ryan rolls over onto his back, but his arms are still splayed out across their sleeping bag. Shane eyes them; Ryan says nothing, but neither does he move his arms. Or, more relevantly, his left arm, which is bisecting the exact area where Shane’s head would rest unless they sleep head to toe, which feels like a cop out considering what brought them here.

_If I pretend I’m totally chill then Ryan will think I’m totally chill_ , Shane tells himself, as though Ryan is some sort of forest predator, and lies down on his back using Ryan’s forearm as a pillow. _Chill_ , he thinks. _Chill, chill, chill_. 

“This was a bad decision,” Ryan says. He wiggles his fingers, and Shane turns his head to look at them, rather than Ryan’s face. Or his throat. Or his collarbones, peeking out of his t-shirt specifically to ruin Shane’s life. “I’m pretty sure the weight of your ginormous head is going to cut off circulation to my hand in about five seconds.” 

“You literally made this bed, Ryan. You gotta lie in it.” After a minute, though, he lifts his head up, and Ryan extracts his arm from underneath Shane. He curls it in, so his hands are supporting his own head, and Shane can feel a hot spark of contact where Ryan’s left elbow is brushing his cheek.

Shane is not generally an anxious person. The heat that he’s flushed with, turning him a pink that would be embarrassingly obvious in daylight, is a consequence of this unexpected closeness; the solution, of course, would be to sleep, and let morning bring the distance he is more accustomed to.

Before Shane can drift off, though, Ryan clears his throat. “Honestly,” he starts, “part of why I came down here was that my dream— it started different. From most of them.”

Shane turns his head and blinks his eyes open. Ryan is fixated on the ceiling. Through the haze of near-sleep, Shane asks, hushed, “In what way?”

Ryan is brave. Ryan is honest, sometimes to his own detriment; he is deeply self-conscious, and somehow always ready to admit to fault in the blink of an eye despite that. He’s one of the most selfless, admirable people Shane knows. It’s important to make this clear now, because it takes Shane a full two minutes to realize that the thing Ryan is about to admit is terrifying to him, and that saying it aloud took all of his courage.

Ryan says: “It was kinda like a sex dream. With us.”

It’s like the message is so incomprehensible that Shane’s brain just wipes it out. He doesn’t think, _Ryan had a sex dream about me_. He doesn’t think, _Ryan just admitted to having a sex dream about me_.

He thinks: _Ryan is having a gay crisis_.

So he says, “I— I mean, just— it’s totally cool, that’s totally cool, I don’t talk about it a lot, but I’m queer too— not that this makes you queer, either, it’s obviously just a thing. Like, straight guys probably have sex dreams too, isn’t that weird? Sex dreams about guys, I mean. It doesn’t make you not straight! Sexuality is a spectrum, of, of, self-identification and—”

“What the fuck?” Thank Christ. Shane shuts up out of pure self-preservation. “I— I’m not having a _gay crisis_ , dude, what the fuck?”

Pause. Rewind.

Shane’s brain decides to take this moment to realize: _RYAN JUST ADMITTED TO HAVING A SEX DREAM ABOUT ME_.

“ _Oh_ , shit,” Shane blurts out, and then winces. “That made it sound bad. This is not bad.”

“It’s a little bad if your instinctive reaction is _oh shit_ ,” Ryan says, a little hysterically, and sits up, pulling his body heat and the electricity of his touch away. Shane sits up, too, as if he’s magnetically drawn to Ryan’s biceps. Hell, maybe he is. At this rate anything is possible.

Shane risks setting his hand on Ryan’s back. He says softly, “It was _oh shit_ because I didn’t realize this was even… possible. I’ve been—” He swallows. Sex dream does not equal crush. Sex dream doesn’t even equal attraction, although with the way Ryan’s acting, the fact that he’s not making it a joke, suggests that there’s gotta be something there.

Ryan looks him in the eye, and he asks, “You’ve been what?”

And Shane, who is not like Ryan, not so adrenaline-hot that he’ll admit to having a wet dream about a coworker on set, figures it’s his turn to take a risk. “I’ve been crushing on you pretty hard for like, the past year, man.”

“Jesus,” Ryan breathes, and then, with barely any time to spare because he’s a Young And Adaptable Quick Thinker, says, “Can I kiss you now?”

Shane is still reeling, but there’s no universe where he’ll say no to that. He leans in, and Ryan leans up, and a shiver crawls down Shane’s spine as Ryan’s mouth meets his. His lips are so fucking soft even as his stubble scratches at Shane’s chin, and when Shane puts his hand on Ryan’s waist, Ryan makes this groan, low in the back of his throat, that sends Shane’s head spinning. He’s not much of a talker usually, but Ryan thumbs at the tip of Shane’s ear and around the back of it to scratch gently at the skin just under his jaw, and Shane hisses out, “ _Fuck_.”

“Oh my God,” Ryan says, and pushes Shane down into their sleeping bag. “I knew— but I _didn’t_ know, I didn’t realize how _hot_ you are, you swear all the time but when it’s like this it’s—”

“C’mere,” Shane interrupts, half stupid with sleep and a vague sense of arousal. He’s not sure how far Ryan wants to take this, so he aims for the throat, gently sucking skin between his teeth, careful not to bruise.

“Oh shit,” Ryan hisses, and twists Shane’s hair in his grip. “Shit, _Jesus_ ,” and the way his hips are rocking suddenly gets Shane _there_ , ready to come in five minutes if only someone would put in the effort.

Shane puts his hands at the hem of Ryan’s shirt, and Ryan obligingly leans back to pull it off. “Didn’t even need to ask,” Shane says, and Ryan rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “No, no,” Shane says, pulling them apart by the wrist, gently pulling his arms down until Ryan’s there in front of him, straddling his hips, hands held down at his side. “Lemme look at you. Jesus Christ.” He makes a show of it, raking his eyes from the top of Ryan’s head to the bulge under his shorts.

Ryan shifts. It shouldn’t be sexy, because he’s clearly embarrassed, but his ass drags against Shane’s dick and it’s really more than any one man should be expected to handle.

“Will you just— stay there for a second,” Shane chokes out, releasing Ryan’s wrists. And God, he does stay there, quietly waiting for Shane to say he can move again. Jesus Christ. Jesus _Christ_.

“Hey,” Ryan says eventually, his voice low and scratchy, “I— this is flattering and all, but I’m— just putting it out there, dude, I could really go for some physical contact.”

“That so, huh,” Shane replies, just as quiet, and pulls him down on top of him. Ryan kisses lazily, deeply, like he got all his energy out earlier and now he’s just malleable enough to let Shane do anything to him. Oh, God. Shane bites at Ryan’s earlobe and takes in his harsh inhale, the whine in the back of his throat. “Just lemme—”

“Fuck,” Ryan gasps as Shane grabs his ass and grinds up, sending sparks flying as their dicks brush against each other. “Shane, Jesus, you—”

“Too much?”

“ _No_ ,” Ryan says emphatically, and scrambles to push up Shane’s shirt. “Get this off, come on, let me see you.”

“Yeah, all right,” and Shane pulls his shirt off, elbows knocking against Ryan’s stomach. Ryan sinks back down, and his skin is so _hot_ where it touches Shane’s, his chest on Shane’s chest, his forearms radiating heat where they’re on the ground next to Shane’s head. “You’re so hot,” he murmurs, and he meant it literally, but Ryan laughs his embarrassed laugh into Shane’s throat and Shane doesn’t clarify. Ryan’s pretty damn gorgeous, too.

Then Ryan kisses him, shuffles around so one of his knees is between Shane’s legs, and grinds his dick down against Shane’s hipbone, and it is so much all at once that Shane has to pull his mouth away to suck in air. “Oh, wow,” he stutters, which is deeply embarrassing considering the fact that he’s in his damn thirties, and lets his hips roll up into Ryan’s thigh. He doesn’t want to cross any boundaries, but he lets his fingers play with the waistband of Ryan’s pants, creep up Ryan’s stomach.

“Shit,” Ryan hisses, and grinds down with more urgency. _Oh God_ , Shane thinks, _this is what he looks like when he fucks_. “Shane, I’ve been— you don’t even know, I’ve been half hard since I woke up, I can’t—”

“You gonna come?” Shane reaches for his pants with more intention, and Ryan doesn’t stop him. “I’m gonna— Can I take these off, do you wanna—”

“Yeah,” Ryan gasps, and Shane can feel him shiver as he pushes Ryan’s shorts down to his thighs. He’s not wearing underwear. “Oh God, yeah—”

“Can I—” and Shane gets his hand around Ryan’s dick, and Ryan grunts in his ear as he fucks up into Shane’s fist. “Damn.”

“Sh— shut up, you don’t— I’ve been—” and Ryan keeps fucking up into Shane’s grip, and it’s not even dry because he’s leaking precome like a damn faucet, and Shane absolutely cannot let him orgasm while thinking that Shane was making fun of him.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Shane says seriously, and puts his other hand on Ryan’s cheek to encourage eye contact. “I was— you’re so fucking hot, man, I’m—” and he can’t do anything but kiss Ryan then, and whisper into his mouth, “You’re beautiful, okay, I was goddamn _impressed_ —”

And Ryan comes all over Shane’s stomach.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Ryan hisses as he thrusts through the aftershocks, “oh my God, yeah—”

“Holy God,” Shane says, because there’s not much else he can think. It’s dark as hell, but Shane can just make out the muscles in Ryan’s back clenching and unclenching, the flash of his teeth pressed into his bottom lip. He doesn’t need any light at all to hear Ryan’s desperate breaths, the half-formed moans in his throat, or to feel the slide of his overheated body under Shane’s hands.

“Fuckin’ great, man,” Ryan slurs, sounding more relaxed than Shane’s ever heard him, and he reaches for Shane’s sweatpants. “Lemme— wanna make you come—”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and can’t stop the groan that comes out of him when Ryan’s hand curls around his dick. “Jesus, Ryan, that’s— give a man some warning—”

“I warned you!” Ryan protests, “I said, I wanna make you come—”

“That’s— oh God— that’s really more of like, an abstract goal statement—”

“Shut up,” Ryan says, and kisses him. Shane thrusts up into his hand, but there’s something— he’s so hard, he’s on the edge, but maybe it’s too dry or he’s just not at an age where a handjob will get him to finish anymore, and a quiet humiliation burns up his neck.

“Hey,” Shane whispers, “I— I dunno if, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Ryan says, pulling the truth out of his incoherent half-sentences. He thumbs over Shane’s nipple, and Shane sees him grin in response to Shane’s full-body shudder. “Lemme show you what I dreamed about.”

“O—okay,” Shane says, and then Ryan slides down his body until he’s eye level with his dick.

Or, maybe, more relevantly — if Shane hasn’t misinterpreted this whole situation — mouth level.

“Are you gonna— Ryan—”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and licks around the head of Shane’s dick. Jesus Christ.

“Shit, Ry,” Shane says, and forces himself up onto his elbows to see what he can, the just-visible shadow of Ryan’s hair, his dark, dark eyes, pupils totally blown out.

Then Ryan gets his mouth on him, sinks down, swallows around him, and Shane lets his head hit the floor. “Jesus, Ryan—”

Ryan moans, a sound Shane feels more than hears, and brings a hand up to play with Shane’s balls. “Fuck that’s— that’s really good, Ryan that’s—”

“Mm-hm?” Ryan asks, sort of, and uses his free hand to pull Shane’s hand into his hair.

“Shit, Ryan, you want—” and Shane just breathes, overwhelmed, as Ryan pushes himself further down onto Shane’s dick, the wet heat of him totally obscene. “I’m gonna— can I push, a little? Is that okay?”

Ryan groans around him, and Shane is going to take that as a yes, also because Ryan’s so jacked he could probably break Shane’s hand if he didn’t like where things were going. He presses down slightly, easy enough to resist, and moans as Ryan’s mouth opens around him readily. “Jesus _Christ_. Where the fuck did you learn to give head like this, dude?”

Ryan pulls off him with a slurp and says, voice hoarse and heavy, “Practiced with dildos, honestly.” He jerks Shane off steadily, mercilessly, and continues, hushed, “Wanted to be good for you, in case— just in case you ever—”

“Oh my God, Ryan,” Shane says, and he knows there’s something soft and cracked open in his voice. That spark starts to shiver up his spine, down his thighs, and he says, “Fuck, Ry, I— that feels so good, you’re doing so good—”

Ryan hunches down to suck at his balls, wet and messy and obscene, and that’s it. An embarrassing noise escapes Shane as he comes all over himself, on his stomach where Ryan came ten minutes earlier, on Ryan’s hands, dripping down his dick.

“That was so hot,” Ryan says frankly, and wipes his hand on Shane’s thigh before pushing himself back up their makeshift bed. He kisses Shane, and Shane can barely kiss back, just breathes into his mouth as he comes down from his high.

“ _You’re_ so hot,” Shane retorts belatedly, slapping at Ryan’s shoulder. “Jesus. Pulling out fuckin’ ten out of ten blowjob tactics after I just gave you a shitty handjob. I’m so mad.”

“Absolutely nothing about that handjob was shitty,” Ryan says, and rolls over onto his back. “But you have to do the clean up. I’m _spent_.”

“I see how it is. Buying my labor with oral. This is going to be a trend, isn’t it?”

Shane doesn’t mean anything by it, and in all honesty, it’s a trade he’d be happy to make regardless, but Ryan sets a hand on his chest before he can go anywhere. “No,” he says seriously. “I wanted that. Don’t think— I don’t want you to think this was anything less than something I’ve—” Shane can’t see him all that well, but he can feel Ryan’s fingers beginning to twitch nervously. “I mean, I literally dreamed about it. Which is kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing at all.” Shane, before he can overthink it, pulls Ryan’s hand up to kiss the back of it. He instantly regrets it. “Now _that_ was embarrassing.”

Ryan snorts. “Aw, no need to be embarrassed by your advanced courting techniques, old man—”

“Old— I am— I’m a damn _millennial_ is what I am, Bergara!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ryan releases him. “Go fetch me some wet wipes, scrub!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane laughs. He doesn’t even have wet wipes.

He does brave the ugly and admittedly creepy bathroom for a wet towel, though, and Ryan doesn’t even complain when Shane makes him rinse it out the next morning. _Not bad_ , Shane thinks, watching Ryan talking into the camera about how he didn’t sleep a wink all by himself. _Not bad at all_.


End file.
